Page 28 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

“Sure.”

Why not? I slide my hand into the crook of his arm.

INT. PITCHFORK LODGE LOBBY—EVENING

GRANT, 25, good looking, outdoorsy, in jeans (Wrangler, $55) and a mint-green polo (Gap, $20), leads KELSEY, 25, blond, in a blue dress, around the varioustaxidermy of the lodge. They smile at each other. It’s a meet-cute.

Grant points over the fireplace to a deer head with an enormous rack. “So that one is Buck the First.”

“Buck, really?”

He looks confused. “Male deer are bucks.”

“I know—I meant that’s sort of on the nose.”

Grant tilts his head. “There’s something on his nose?”

All right. The bulb might be a little dim.

It’s practice, Kelsey. Just practice.

“Never mind. Is there a Buck the Second?”

He whirls us around. “Right over here.” We walk to a side wall, where another deer is centered in a bookshelf, otherwise filled with leather-bound volumes.

“Buck the Second likes to read?”

“What makes you think he likes to read?”

“He’s by the books.”

“Oh.” Grant takes in the shelves like he’s never noticed their contents before.

Whew, boy.

Grant leads us to the back corner with a collection of smaller animals.

They must be older than the beaver, because their fur seems to be rubbing off, making them look like they have mange. Or maybe something has been slowly eating them.

Grant gestures to the animals. “Here we have Scrubby the Squirrel, Rudy the Raccoon, and Freddy the Fox.”

“I guess alliteration makes it easier to remember.”

Grant’s expression collapses into confusion. “You lit what?”

I should stop trying. “I like their names.”

His face brightens. “Me too!”

Yeah, I’ll be racing out of town in the morning.

I turn to a shelf with a second beaver, much larger than the one I knocked over. “What about him?”

This sends a roar of laughter through the room. We’ve apparently been the subject of everyone’s attention.

“That one’s a girl beaver,” someone shouts.

“Tell her, G-spot!” says another voice.

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